


And Jack obeys

by captainhurricane



Series: Kinktober 2017 [4]
Category: BioShock
Genre: Dirty Talk, Knife Play, M/M, basically phone sex, dub-con, obvs spoiler alert if you don't know the twist, trigger phrase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-09 01:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12266511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: It's boring to wait to get what you want. So Atlas takes a moment to tease Jack.





	And Jack obeys

**Author's Note:**

> absolutely nothing to do with the bioshock-canon lmao
> 
> the word of the day is 'knifeplay'.... which there isn't much. lmao sorry

 

The voice from the shortwave radio is mostly the only voice Jack hears: the only hint of life in the desolate, ruined halls of this city, born from a dream but made into a nightmare.

The voice tells Jack what to do. The voice tells him where to go. Atlas, the voice purrs, the accent crisp and intriguing. Jack doesn’t know this voice, can’t know this voice- it’s not like he has been in Rapture before, right?

 

But he trusts this voice.

 

It’s a nice voice, sometimes as seductive and dangerous as the static-filled jazz Jack occasionally hears from still working radios. Sometimes the voice remarks on this and that, tells Jack of this enemy and that enemy, practically snarls with rage when Andrew Ryan booms from TV-screens and advertisements.

 

Jack doesn’t quite understand who Atlas is- and why Atlas is even helping. Maybe Atlas is truly just another lost soul, trapped under the sea in this ruined greatness.

 

But Jack trusts this voice. He spots a few posters here and there- Atlas Was Right- and stays still for long enough to admire the visage of a working class hero before being forced to move by yet another cackling Splicer or the thundering footsteps of a Big Daddy.

 

 _“Do you trust me?”_ purrs Atlas through the radio. It crackles with static, the voice is lost. Then it returns yet again.

 

Jack clutches his wrench, stretches the fingers burning blue with electricity and nods. “I mean. Yeah. ‘Course. You’ve kept me alive so far.” He turns a corner. It’s another one of those tunnels, connecting this building to that building. He watches a shark swim by, utterly unfazed by this sprawling structure in the middle of its home.

 

The radio buzzes _. “You must be tired_ ,” Atlas whispers.

 

Faintly Jack can hear rustling. Is Atlas laying down? Sitting down? At least Atlas can’t see through Jack’s chest into his wildly beating heart, through his head into his wildly buzzing brain. Jack goes on.

_“That was a question,”_ Atlas says after a moment of long silence, voice softly amused.

“Oh. Right. I am kinda. Tired,” Jack mutters and lowers the radio from his face again, letting it stay on. It crackles.

 

_“Maybe you should go lay down. Aren’t you close to the The Fighting McDonagh’s Tavern? It should be right around the corner. Right?”_

 

“Suuure,” Jack hums and checks his map. His legs ache. His newly acquired guns thud against his legs with every step.

 

_“Go there.”_

 

“But-“

 

_“Would you kindly go there and lock yourself into, I don’t know, upper floor? Be a pal.”_

 

Jack’s legs take him towards the tavern, the almost sweet tone of Atlas’ voice irresistible. Jack doesn’t think anything of it.

 

He finds the tavern, fights his way through another wave of Splicers, hacks and slices and shoots and at last, finds a secluded room on the upper floors without corpses, without anything but a broken bed and oddly enough, an assortment of knives on the bed. Jack barricades the door by dragging the miserable excuse for a cupboard in front of it. He goes to examine the knife and nearly jumps when the radio crackles again.

 

 _“Boyo,”_ hums Atlas from god knows here. _“Are you there yet?”_

 

“I’m here,” says Jack, taking one of the knives in hand. It’s almost as long as his forearm. Carefully he tries the steel. It doesn’t even look rusty. It’s handle seems sturdy and thick.

 

_“What do you see?”_

 

Jack blinks. What is with this? Usually Atlas would be urging him on. “Do I really have time for this? I mean-”

 

_“Boyo. Would you kindly describe to me the room you’re in?”_

 

“Uhm, it’s big,” Jack says, mouth opening before Atlas has even finished his sentence. “Filthy as shit. There’s a cupboard. And a bed. And for some reason, a shitload of knives. No wait, I think there’s a-“ he crouches to pull out a crumpled note. It’s damp from god knows what so Jack grimaces. He unfolds it. An unwanted, unnecessary snicker escapes. “What the fuck. Someone was trying to smuggle kitchen knives. But they got trapped in here. But I don’t see a body.”

 

 _“Not important,”_ Atlas says. _“Why don’t you take one of those knives in hand and sit down?”_

 

“Atlas-“

 

_“Would you kindly do as I say?”_

 

Atlas doesn’t sound so hurried after all. He sounds a little… bored. Why wouldn’t Jack indulge him? Jack takes the biggest one, the shiniest one. He sits down. “The bed springs are broken, I think.” The only lamp in the room, the light long since faded to a dull glow, barely illuminates the shiny knife. It’s rather hypnotic.

 

 _“Mmm,”_ hums Atlas. _“Would you kindly kiss the knife_?” More rustling from Atlas’ side.

 

Jack’s brain blurs. His lips- chapped and cold and split- are warm against the coolness of the knife. “This is weird,” he mutters. But he feels so compelled to just… obey.

 

Atlas makes another pleased sound. _“Now… would you be a pal and would you kindly remove your clothes?”_

 

Jack’s brain blurs even more, until all he hears is the static of the radio. He inhales, but the air in the room is stale. “Wh- “ But he’s laid down the knife, pulled off his jumper and pulled his trousers and underwear down to his ankles before he can think otherwise. Why would he though, when all Atlas wants is what’s good for him, right?

 

 _“Cut yourself with it,”_ growls Atlas. The radio is laid down on the bed, right next to Jack.

 

Jack hums, cuts a red line in the middle of his chest.

 

_“Spread your legs.”_

 

Jack does. The wound stings.

 

_“How’s your cock look, would you kindly tell your pal Atlas?”_

 

Jack struggles to find words. He wants to grip his cock but instead runs the cool knife up and down his body. His cock is… something. It’s not thick or long, but it’s gripped tightly in Jack’s hand.

“It’s hard,” Jack slurs.

 

Atlas guffaws and a momentary flash of hurt runs through Jack’s mind.

 

_“’course it’s hard, boyo, pretty boyo. Play with the knife. Tell your pal Atlas what you do.”_

 

Jack grunts as he starts to stroke, his other hand still tightly gripping the knife. It cuts into his skin again. “A-Atlas-“

 

_“Would you kindly?”_

 

Jack’s body jolts. The words spill from his lips. “I’m stroking myself, I’m really red and- I’m so dirty, I cut myself again-“

 

_“You know what I’m doing, boyo? I’m jerking off to your little whines.”_

 

Jack shudders. He brings the knife to his lips and licks it, whimpers when he cuts his tongue on it. He sucks the blood from the tiny cut and wipes the blade on his lips. “Wish you were here,” he blurts out, face hot, body hot.

 

 _“Oh, boyo, so do I.”_ Now Atlas grunts, a slick sound carrying itself through the shoddy connection.

 

Jack’s hands move shifter. What is he doing? Why is he doing this? why can’t he stop?

 

 _“I can hear you overthinking,”_ Atlas whispers _. “Stop it. Just think of me and play with the knife. Play with your pretty little cock, would you kindly?”_

 

And Jack does, forever the good little soldier, the Trojan horse in a filthy jumper. He brings the handle of the knife to his mouth and takes it, chokes on it, listens to Atlas moans.

 

_“Suck it, suck it like it was my damn cock-“_

 

Jack whimpers, his hips now thrusting up. Would it fit if he- he sits up, spreads his thighs. He squeezes his eyes shut.

 

 _“You are a dirty little thing, aren’t ya? Would you kindly say to me that you are a filthy little slut?”_ Atlas purrs, so close that Jack can almost imagine he’s in the room.

 

“I’m-“ Jack begins to push the handle into himself, body aching from cuts, from barely healed bruises.

 

 _“Jack,”_ Atlas growls, a warning, a reminder.

 

Jack pushes and pushes and the handle slips in, burning and aching but it belongs there when he can’t have anything else. “I’m a filthy little slut,” he groans, pained.

 

 _“Yes,”_ hisses Atlas, the slick, obscene sounds from his side now increasing his number. _“Yes you are. Were I there, I would fuck your brains out.”_

 

Godfuckingfuck but it hurts, but it’s good. Jack keeps an unsteady grip on the knife, ignoring the sting of wounds on his fingers as he fucks himself on the handle. “I’m- I-I’m-“

 

_“Tell me, boyo.”_

 

“Fucking myself. On the handle.”

 

Now Atlas curses, his groan so loud. _“You are a damn filthy slut,”_ comes the breathless whisper, followed by laughter _. “Suck on your fingers. Would you kindly? Let me hear all those pretty, sweet sounds. Do it until you come. Can’t fucking wait to do it to you.”_

 

And Jack obeys, because obeying is what he does. His brain is a blur, his thoughts locked away, pushed away by those three, seductive, heavy words.


End file.
